


Under the Bludgeonings of Chance

by DinosaurTheology



Series: Black Leather and Pink Lace [1]
Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Conversations, Sexual Violence, Violence, invictus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-17 18:42:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5881477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DinosaurTheology/pseuds/DinosaurTheology
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dets. Diaz and Santiago are called to a situation involving sex crimes, end up in front of an Internal Affairs officer and learn a little bit about each other. Det. Diaz' fists gain classification as a deadly weapon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under the Bludgeonings of Chance

**Author's Note:**

> Brooklyn 99 is not mind, but I love it. This was... uncomfortable... writing to say the least. I love Amy and Rosa and they're so good for digging deep into emotions.

Sergeant Jeffords should have known, in retrospect, that Santiago and Diaz might have been the wrong pair for busting up the 10-10-3 that came over the radio for Majique Productions (It's where the magic happens! or so their flyer merrily crowed, at least). He would defend it in public to his dying day, though, for the sake of his officers if not his own self. Rosa and Amy were a couple of good police. It's just that... certain situations can create trouble for otherwise perfectly nice people. Or, in this case, one perfectly nice person and a stone-cold hellcat in black leather who could throw a better Rock Bottom than Dwayne Johnson. Still, Terry hadn't eaten more than two thousand calories since getting to work that day, Terry had yogurt, and Terry loved yorgurt. That Stonyfield Farm peaches and cream Greek yogurt, the finest nectar a man can enjoy this side of Percy Jacksoning it up on Olympus, had seemed so much more important than a minor scuffle at an entertainment company.

He could not have known, he informed the Sergeant Ramos from the Internal Affairs Board, that the magic happening at Majique Studios was of a pornographic nature, specifically that violent subspecies looked down on by the mainstream and BDSM enthusiasts alike. Given the circumstances, though, what ensued could have hardly been avoided. He said it and the 16's union rep backed him up on it. Their own union rep had been involved, peripherally, in the fracas. The guy from Manhattan had been called in because, as Captain Holt put with his usual brief eloquence, "No one knows whether the hell or not that hump Detective Diaz busted is a special victim or not." It had been that kind of week.

So there they were, with the man from IAB. Sergeant Ramos was tall and rangy, about sixty years old, with silvery hair and a drooping mustache. He looked a trifle like Captain Barney Miller, from that old show Jake and Amy couldn't shut up about, and spoke with a soft Boricuan accent. The .38 resting snugly on his hip spoke to thirty-five years of careful, hard won experience. He ran a hand through his thinning hair, looked like he was wishing for a cigarette, and said, "Tell us again, Sergeant and Detectives, what exactly transpired at Majique Studios?"

"Simple," Diaz said. "Some shit spilled on the floor. I cleaned it up." She smiled. It didn't make anyone particularly comfortable.

"In a little more detail," Ramos said.

Amy Santiago spoke up. "Okay," she said, "I'll tell the story. Just... no judging, okay?"

"No judging," he said. "I'm just here to get your story."

"Then why are we in this room instead of kicking it around some beer and wings?" Diaz snorted. "You're a worm from IAB, Ramos. Of course you're here to judge."

Yeah. Just like it had been that kind of week, it had also been that kind of meeting.

He didn't respond. With some people it was wiser to avoid engagement. Her path clear, Detective Santiago drew a deep breath and began:

Shooting that afternoon, at Majique, had been the latest episode of a particularly charming series called "Latina Crashers." With a title like that, as expected, no one was going to mistake it for an installment of Masterpiece Mystery. A neighbor in the cycle shop by the studio, alarmed by the sounds of struggle, had called it in. Normally a radio car would have gone, but Amy and Rosa were on their way back from doing door-to-door at the Mercy Village housing project on a gigglepig related errand and--being closer than any of the blue and whites--volunteered to check things out.

"She volunteered," Diaz said. "I don't volunteer for anything."

"You volunteered that information," Ramos said. He smiled, tried to set her at ease.

"I'm about to volunteer my foot in your ass."

This was certainly a nontraditional way of proving that you didn't have anger management and public relations problems. He let it pass. Santiago went on:

_They found four humans, a director's chair and a filthy orange couch older than either woman in the studio's dingy shooting room. Two naked men, both of whom Amy described as "really sorta methy," stood over a naked girl with tawny skin and dark, curly hair. A cameraman, standing behind the action, didn't register the import of what transpired. He might have even thought that this was part of some grand, artistic vision on the part of his boss. Whatever. His record proved valuable, later on, and at the moment Amy hadn't thought a whole lot about it._

_The girl sobbed, shaking. Strings of saliva, mucus and vomit ran down her chin, across her bare breasts and belly. Red handprints stood out on them, on her face and thighs. Save her, everyone stood in a perfectly still, silent tableau. The art history major in Amy could have appreciated it, even in spite of the subject matter, on just a compositional level. She appreciated, also, a heat rising in herself. Her temperature was approaching what the 99 affectionally called "Diaz normal." Her internal climate? Amy could only guess that it reached for the center of a nuclear reaction and didn't look back._

_Things could have gone one of two ways, here. On the surface of things it looked like a distasteful but perfectly legal casting couch porn video. The first amendment was a many splendored thing. They were cops, though, and damn it sometimes doing your due diligence could be such a pleasure. Made up for all the times it was, in fact, a perfect pain in the ass._

_"Ay chica," Diaz said. "¿Cuántos años tienes?"_

_She sniffled. "Dieciséis."_

_Rosa glowered. Amy frowned, detecting that the tightly but barely controlled fury always present below the surface in her friend was about to explode all over somebody. Maybe she should have done something, but there were times you just didn't in this life and, well, damn what came next. You could rationalize it and find an explanation for those who might ask but it was important to be honest, at least, with yourself. "Quedarse con Detective Santiago. Va a cuidar de ti."_

_The director, one Garth "Vader" Didrick, didn't manage to pick up on this. Some people just aren't too sensitive. He sauntered over to Rosa, rigid cock bobbing in front of him, the figurehead on a ship of fools. It was pale and veined with blue, like Roquefort. "Hey, girls," he said. "Did our little puta Zia want some friends to come over?" He leered. "That's okay, we've got plenty of burritos to go around, ladies, as long as you'll share your tacos." The big moke behind him--they found out later that he was named Flanksteak--giggled high and sharp, like a girl, as if this was the funniest thing he'd ever heard. Garth Vader grinned wide enough to show all five teeth. Yep, Amy thought. Totes methy. The cameraman, stunned maybe, just kept rolling._

_It would have been super easy to arrest him. Naked people aren't known for their endurance, after all, unless they happened to be Florida Men hopped on something better than sex. Just slap the bracelets on and off we go to cool it in a concrete hotel. Rosa... chose against that route. She grabbed the little creep's Roquefort cheese dick. His grin widened--probably thought, for an instant, that his dream was coming true, that the cop coming to bust him was going to give him a handy, he was just that fucking awesome. She shattered that dream, along with any chance he ever had of producing an heir to his name, by squeezing tight and twisting._

_Garth went paler than he already was, shrieked like a rusty hinge and fell to his knees. Rosa kept her hand on him until he hit the floor and then, with a swift soccer style kick to his balls, let him drop. He writhed in agony, moaning about how she had broken his nuts, how his grandkids would feel it, how women the world over felt a great disturbance in the Force, as of a billion sperm crying out at once and then being silenced. Amy rolled her eyes, flipped him and snapped the bracelets on. The girl knelt behind her, dark eyes wide, drinking in the whole adventure._

_Flanksteak, his boss' distress finally sinking through a skull denser than plutonium, advanced on Rosa. Amy finished on the floor and moved to help, but probably needn't have bothered. Flanksteak was big, yeah, but he was slow. And DT classes were kind of a joke, sure (you'll take down your opponent, her instructor had promised with a kind of manic enthusiam, with a minimum of harm to you or him!), but the muay thai, krava maga and BJJ classes with which Rosa supplemented them were not._

_The big mook didn't know what hit him, but it turned out to be an elbow, knee and then two more elbows. He hit the floor with a forehead gashed open near to the bone and blood pouring into his eyes. "You killed me, oh God." He moaned, holding his face. "Oh, you fucking killed me... fucking bitch... fucking killed me." She gave him another kick in the ribs, to loosen his grip, rolled him and snapped the bracelets on his thick wrists. A sticky red pool started forming under him on the carpet, mixed with the vomit already there in swirls like gruesome oil paints. "Fucking killed me, killed me."_

_Rosa knelt close, whispered in his ear like a lover. The voice was one any man would fantasize about, the message pure nightmare. "You're awful loud for a dead man, so I didn't do a very good job. Better get quiet before I make sure."_

_The cameraman, just here for his ten bucks an hour, put his hands up, got on his knees and hoped he could weather the storm. They took him without trouble._

"And now you know the rest of the story," Amy said. "That's what Paul Harvey would say. If he was here. And, er, telling an absolutely grotesque story that would get him kicked off the air in a heartbeat."

"You get nervous a lot, don't you?" Ramos said.

"Mewhatnervousme?" Amy waved her hands. "I am not the nervous one that is, nope. You--" She pointed at Rosa. "It is she who have the nerves!" Her laughter, bordering on the hysterical, suggested that this was an attempt at joking around to ease the tension. It might even have been among the aliens of a particularly awkward planet.

Her anxiety turned out to have been in vain. Sergeant Ramos cleared them of any wrongdoing, especially the ludicrous charge that Garth Vader was a special victim because Rosa had tried to twist his lightsaber off. His report read, in part:

_If you approach an officer with a weapon, said officer is entitled to take that weapon away from you. Detective Diaz erred merely in failing to finish her disarming of the perpetrator._

His only suggestion was, if possible, that the NYPD should replace their Glock-19s with Detective Diaz's fists and feet as the standard sidearm.

Rosa and Amy stood well outside the door of the Internal Affairs Board Command Cneter. It was a raw, windy early afternoon--grey in the way that it can only be on Hudson Street at the end of January. Amy shivered and hugged the lapels of her pink, woolen sweater closer. Rosa seemed all right. Her volcanic internal generator never seemed to allow her to feel the cold. Amy... wasn't quite like that. Getting warm from the outside in didn't seem to be working, so she decided to try it from the other way around and lit a cigarette.

She took a long drag and offered one to Rosa. "No thanks," she said. "Body's a temple. Or some shit."

Amy shrugged and drew the smoke and warmth deep into her lungs. She knew it was bad for her but, jeez, what wasn't these days? Tendrils of blue curled around her fingers, wafted up to frame her face. The Sarge was still inside, talking things over with Sergeant Ramos. They had planned to ride back to the 99 together but with the garrulous and good natured Terry Jeffords engaged in conversation that might take a little while.

"So," Amy said. "That really makes you think."

"What does?"

"That girl, you know," she said. "Zia." She let the cigarette dangle from her lips a long moment, then spoke again. "Where she ended up."

"Nope," Rosa said. "Doesn't make me think at all."

Amy raised her eyebrows. "Not even a little?"

"Try not to," she said. "Just do my job and forget the rest."

"But all I mean is that I kind of looked like her when I was sixteen."

"What, skanky, trashed and coked out? You cleaned yourself up good, Santiago."

Amy glared. "No, not that and you know. What I mean is how do people end up doing... that. Where she was. With those..." She squirmed, didn't want to call them people.

"Bad parents, a bad decision, just plain dumb or unlucky. Who knows."

"The bludgeonings of chance."

"You could call it that... if you were a nerd."

"I just mean that, there but for the grace of God, right?"

"No. Wrong."

"No sympathy at all?"

"You can always fight," Rosa said. "There's always a choice."

"Do you really believe that?" Amy drew on her Virginia Slim again. It had smoldered low. She'd need another, soon. Nasty habit, really, and almost impossible to sustain in New York. Still, sometimes you just needed one... especially after a day--week--like this one.

"Yeah," Rosa said. "There's always a choice. Even if it's just between letting yourself get into that situation or fighting until you die."

"Out of the night that covers me," Amy said, "black as the Pit from pole to pole. I thank whatever gods may be for my unconquered soul."

"Yeah." Rosa grinned. It made her handsome, austere face into something sublime. She aimed a gentle elbow at Amy's ribs. It hurt only a little. "College girl."

"I never like poetry all that much," Amy said. "I couldn't get a handle on it, like I could with a painting or sculpture. I liked that one, though."

"Sounds good. I'll have to look it up."

"I think you'll like it." She heard a bustle at the door, and looked up to see Sergeant Jeffords waving goodbye to yet another friend--Terry really was everybody's buddy. It was time to go home, away from the place that any cop regarded as one of wrath and tears and back into family's warm embrace.


End file.
